The Keepsake: An Empress Chronicles Book

By Suzy Vitello

ONE DIARY

TWO HEROINES

THREE LOCKETS

In this second Empress Chronicles Series book, Liz and Sisi continue their intertwined journey through time. On the heels of discovering a magical locket in the empress diary, Liz comes to understand its very special power: the wearer must speak the truth. Not only that, but it turns o

• Language: English
• Publisher: words in a hurry
• Release date: Sep 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996732512

Suzy Vitello

Suzy Vitello writes and lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and her dog and occasionally one or more of their five kids. She holds an MFA from Antioch, Los Angeles, and has been a recipient of an Oregon Literary Arts grant. Her previous novels include Faultland, The Moment Before and the YA Empress Chronicles series.

Book preview

Table of Contents

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

BOOKS BY SUZY VITELLO

DEDICATION

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The Keepsake

Copyright © 2015 by Suzy Vitello

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For permission or information, please contact Words in a Hurry Press.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, occurrences and places are of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Words in a Hurry Press

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E-Pub ISBN: 978-0-9967325-1-2

Formatting by Champagne Formats

Books by Suzy Vitello

Unkiss Me: Stories

The Moment Before

The Empress Chronicles

I WAS BORN WITH A tooth—a rare and lucky thing. My family had always trusted my good star, calling me Fortune’s darling from when I was a babe in arms. Now, as I dressed for the emperor’s birthday party where I had been told he would propose marriage, there was never a time that I needed more deeply to believe in my fortune as well.

As I smoothed the stray hairs that had loosened from my braid, I looked in the mirror. The keepsake that my governess had looped round my neck earlier sparkled in the glass. She had promised that this locket would keep me safe, and that, as long as it was given of free will, the magic would continue.

Virtue, she’d named this keepsake. There were two others. Vision and Voice. Together these three lockets had a sacred history—my governess claimed that their combined power was stronger than any ruler. Stronger, she said, than any curse.

I was not sure that I believed in such a thing.

Wilhelmine now possessed the second locket—Vision—which had shown to bear the likeness of someone beloved to the wearer. As for the Voice locket, its whereabouts remained a mystery.

I rubbed my finger against the clasp of the Virtue keepsake, teasing it. My very own likeness graced this locket—the one that my governess had kept all these years.

But just as I was about to pry the locket open, I felt a hand at my throat. Her gravelly voice at my ear: You foolish girl. I could not see her, but I smelled her desire—as strong as fire-cooked meat. What have you done with it?

I knew better than to struggle in her grasp. She was trying to choke the life from me, but she could not strangle me before getting what she came for. The knowledge of this was so plain. Why had it evaded me thus far?

Lola, I whispered hoarsely. You lied to me.

Her invisible hand, the pressing in of each gnarled finger, squeezed my throat tighter yet. You do not know who you are trying to outwit, you silly child.

I forced calm to my voice. Your plan did not succeed, your trickery and wickedness.

You idiot, seethed the voice. You could have had your freedom—everything you wished for. And now? You will be a slave to Vienna and slowly go mad.

Though I knew this enchantress wished me ill, a small part of my heart lit like a fever with the truth of her words.

One day soon, you will see. The third keepsake, that of Voice, will find its way to you, and you will meet with the fate of your mad cousin, Amalie. I would have saved you from that. But you chose a different path. You will live to regret your choice for the rest of your days.

Lola, that puzzling shape-shifter, tightened her grip on my throat. But I had a weapon. I rubbed Wilhelmine’s Virtue locket, and as I did so, the strangling ceased. Her voice diminished. As though hit by the very same bolt of lightning that destroyed poor Nené’s portrait the day before, all grew clear. The warnings in my diary, seemingly written by the girl from the future. They must have come from the loving presence Baroness Wilhelmine spoke of: the origin of the three keepsakes, which were designed to thrive in all times. The past, present and future.

I walked over to the window and sat down. I would have no choice but to agree to marry the emperor. One did not refuse a man of his station, and if the world would once again march toward a place of love, I would be part of it. As Empress Elisabeth of Austria, I could wield virtue instead of a sword.

I continued to run my fingers over the protective keepsake, and as I did so, I pondered my future. And my past. Would agreeing to marry a man I did not love be a betrayal to my dear Count Sebastian? Opening my governess Wilhelmine’s locket slowly, I brought the image of the girl I used to be to my lips, intending a farewell kiss to my past, but as I brought the winged treasure toward me, I recoiled in horror. The photo inset was not of me at all. It was not of anyone I knew. Where my own face had just a few moments earlier looked out from the keepsake, there was now a picture of girl, a peasant, ruddy of cheek, and freckled. And where her peasant’s bonnet should have been was a head of tufted, fuzzy hair.

LIZ! SCREAMS DAD.

I back away from the rushing air, slowly. Coming.

Chop, chop! he says.

I count seven steps, and then turn around, touching each finger to my thumb: finger-thumb-finger-thumb, counting all the way to seven. Breathe seven breaths. These last few weeks, since all that weirdness with Cory and the locket, my OCD is worse than ever, and my whole thing about counting-by-sevens has reached full-on certifiable.

Plus, it’s so crazy hot out I can hardly move without feeling faint.

Cory and Willow are in the shed scrubbing all the goats’ udders, trying to prevent the spread of bacterial mastitis, which seems to have infected Shamrock, the star goat. There’s no end to disease out here, and when it’s this hot, it’s worse. I tried helping with the udder-cleaning, but as soon as I saw that inflamed milk sac—boom—shivers of repulsion zapped through me. Acid puke burped up my throat. I couldn’t do it. I can’t do it. Booby prize is, I’m on fence repair with Dad.

Dad has a spool of wire he’s pulling taut, trying to wrap it around a fencepost that’s lurching to one side. He waves me over with his chin.

The sun blasts as though shooting from a laser, and already there’s a trickle of wet running between my shoulder blades, under the chain of the locket. I wrap my hands around the post and pull it toward me as much as I can while Dad winds thick, shiny metal wire just below my grip. I’m pulling so hard on the wood post my muscles shake. I grit my teeth, because I really don’t want the words to come out, but they do anyway. This is pointless. You know that, right?

Dad is muttering, swearing under his breath. I tell him, The goats aren’t stupid. All those fresh blackberries, Willow’s vegetable garden? Why would they stay in a dusty corral when dinner’s just a squirm away?

Our electricity bill is nosebleed high, thanks to the cheese-making stuff and refrigeration. According to Dad, even putting in an electric fence will send us into poverty. Which is ridiculous, but true. Dad and Willow are constantly fighting about money. There isn’t enough of it and the stack of unpaid bills on Dad’s desk is so tall, it’s bending like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Save the attitude, okay? Just keep holding on.

Keep holding on. Right. In this stifling heat, on this filthy farm, that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing. School is still 53 days from now, and I can’t wait. If you would have told me that I’d be counting the days—truly, ticking them off on my wall calendar—until sophomore year begins, I’d have laughed in your face. Between Mom being gone for over a month, Willow and Dad screaming at each other, and my weird semi-crush on Cory—and the whole Sisi journal fiasco (not to mention my shrink’s sudden departure) —it’s a wonder I haven’t gone completely crazy. I mean certifiable. Back to the bin, crazy. A lot of it would be solved if Dad would let me go, but now is not the time to reintroduce the idea of going to Europe to be with Mom.

Dad swears a few more times but then, finally, he gets the wire wrapped tight and the post righted. The look of the repaired section of pasture fence is actually somewhat perfect. Symmetrical, strong, capable. It’s a little bit beautiful, and I must be cracking a smile because Dad’s tone changes. A soft layer of love coats his voice, and he says, Princess, we did it, and then offers the high-five hand.

Even though high-fiving is something a parent does with a little kid, I indulge him. His calloused palm against my chapped one. Slap! I’m knocked a bit off balance, and the chain of the locket shifts, the locket itself cutting into the skin of my collarbone. And it’s a boiled over pot how the words roll up and out my throat, I wish we could be more like this all the time. Happy, I mean.

Dad’s eyes go all squinty, and he looks at me hard. Me too, he says.

He straightens up and bends backward a bit, his face to the hot sun. There’s more he wants to say, I can tell, but we’re interrupted by the sound of Willow and Cory screaming at one another from the barn. Their harsh words are punctuated with goat bleats and metal clanging. Dad sighs. "Guess they didn’t get the be happy memo."

Right, I agree, my OCD doing what it does, causing my mind to churn numbers: seven, six, five, four as we walk-run toward whatever they’re fighting about.

We get there by the time I’m at two. Cory has tied a bandana around his forehead, but you can still see veins bulging out around the edges of it. And his neck is a sculpture of muscle. His fists, clenched.

Willow is red-cheeked. Fuming. Her face all mad is happening more and more, lately. She hammers brushes and sponges into an aluminum trough, and once we’re all the way in the goat shed, she shifts her attention to Dad. It’s just not working. I don’t know whether he’s stoned again or just stupid. I’m done with this idiot.

I can hear Dad swallow, and he steps toward his girlfriend, who is all sweaty and dirty and untucked. She looks like she just crawled through the desert, and there’s two cloven hoof prints on one of her thighs. It’s a negative-space etching, an art project they used to assign back in my alternative middle school days. Most of her jeans leg is coated in dust except for where one of the goats kicked her.

Dad tries hugging Willow, but she pushes him away. She’s that mad. Cory chimes in, "I’m supposed to somehow know not to use liniment? Sorry, Sis, I didn’t take Goat Infections 101. I’m not a mind reader."

Words want to vomit up from inside me again. I don’t know what is going on, but it’s like my voice has a mind of its own. And then, in spite of practically clenching my jaw closed, out springs: Have you considered just quitting the whole Willow Creek Cheese business? I mean, the way you guys are headed, you’re going to kill these poor goats.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Willow starts crying. This is her dream, this goat farm, and it’s not working out.

Cory shoots me a look, even though he was ready to punch his sister a minute ago. Even though she’d just called him an idiot. Blood being thicker than water and whatnot.

Dad is rubbing Willow’s upper arms, and her face is in the little hollow under his throat. A weird bolt of jealousy pierces me in the gut. He used to comfort me that same way. I turn and walk out of the goat shed. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, one, two, three, four, five …

Cory follows me out. I hear him gaining on me by the time I get to the sixth round of sevens, so I start jogging, even though the heat is prickling me and I’m ready to pass out I’m so thirsty.

Cory’s deep voice rolls toward me. Liz! Wait up!

I’m not waiting. I’m starting to really fear what’s going to come out of my mouth next. A month ago, I’d started feeling in control. Wasn’t counting, wasn’t cleaning, was gaining weight like Dr. Greta commanded. But then she left the country, and everything started to fall apart at the farm. And now there’s a new dilemma courtesy of Mom. She’s been iClouding and Vibering and What’s-Apping. She wants me to join her on the cruise ship all of August—she’s even secured me a job in the toddler care room. She sent a plane ticket, and I really miss her.

Which is another thing that’s got Dad and Willow upset.

By the time I reach the dusty farmhouse porch, Cory’s caught up. He grabs my shoulder and pulls me back a little, and in his grabbing, he catches a finger in the chain of the locket. Dude! You’re still wearing this?

I feel caught doing something I shouldn’t be. The warmth of a blush fills my cheeks.

He says, I thought you were all grossed out by germs and stuff. This jewelry is typhoid waiting to happen.

I soaked it in one of your sister’s weirdo natural cleansers.

No way.

Way. Plus, I think you mean tetanus, not typhoid.

Cory and I sit down on the flea-ridden couch on the porch, and I reach into the cooler of kombucha that Willow placed nearby earlier in the day. I’ve got my knees tucked under me, trying not to imagine that I’m some sort of Sweet Tomatoes for vermin. I pull the locket up over my head and hand it to Cory, and he holds it in his palm, open to the goddess picture under the glass.

We can still hear Dad and Willow arguing in the shed. It’s more like whining, actually. Their voices all up-speaky and drawn out. Cory is still focused on the goddess, his bandanna resting crooked on his forehead. Wouldn’t it be cool if this had some sort of power to grant wishes? You know. Like a genie lamp.

Okay. I’ll play. Why not. What would you wish?

Cory gestures to the shed. It’d be nice if this thing would work out for Willow, y’know?

I take a sip of vinegary potion. A bolt of sour attacks my nasal passages. It takes me a moment to be able to speak. "This thing? You mean, the thing with my dad, or do you mean the goat thing?"

Cory shrugs. Anything. I mean, she’s sort of cursed. Her big heart gets her in trouble.

Willow is blood. I’m water. I’m staring at the locket in Cory’s hand. The afternoon sun rays are poking in from the side of the porch, hitting the metal just so. There’s a gleam it’s giving off. Almost blinding if you look at it straight on. I keep wondering if I should contact Dr. Greta about this.

"I think that ship has sailed. You stole it … we stole it. Remember?"

My heart skips around a little hearing the truth. The locket, the diary … every day I feel like I’m deeper inside of a lie. Maybe that’s why I keep blurting out truths. My guilty conscience from our caper last month, replacing Sisi’s diary entries in Dr. Greta’s cabinet with my empty food journal pages. The stolen diary entries are hidden in my room. She hasn’t written back since that time.

I’ve been thinking that maybe someone planted all of it, Cory says. Like someone played a trick on us.

Cory has snapped the locket closed and he’s holding it up like he’s trying to hypnotize me with it. The timepiece wobbles back and forth on the chain. This crazy old relic hidden in the spine of the diary had sprung loose when we tore into the journal.

His teasing me though, it makes me wonder something. How do I know you didn’t scribble that note in there and pretend to be Sisi? I mean, I can’t read German. You could have made the whole thing up.

He laughs. Yeah, right.

The kombucha is giving me heartburn, or maybe it’s the memory of something that’s now resurfacing. "That very first note in my food journal, remember? The Count must die? Maybe you wrote that? Maybe you’re trying to drive me back to the loony bin?"

Ha! Then I’d get to do all of these chores by myself. Good plan.

If I were cooler, I’d do an ironic thing with my eyebrows right now. Instead, I just confirm what a nerd I am. I tell Cory that maybe he and his sister are gaslighting me.

Cory’s face goes all puzzle-twist.

Gaslight, you know? That black-and-white film with Ingrid Bergman?

Cory stops pendulum-swinging the locket and stares at me. Aside from not being an art house movie guy, he’s also not a classic film buff. So I give him the quick summary. Even the spoilers because he’ll never see Gaslight.

Okay, so Charles Boyer tries to make Bergman think she’s going crazy. Things disappear. Paintings on the wall. Brooches from her purse. But it’s Boyer, all along.

So, what does that have to do with gaslight?

I pick up the kombucha bottle and hold it up, swirling the tiny bit that’s left. Boyer reduced the flow of gas to the lamps. She kept seeing the lights flicker and dim, and he told her she was imagining it.

Cory closes his fist around the locket. So, if you got sent back to the psych ward, what would I have to gain?

Maybe you want my collection of rare books? My Japanese bathroom fixtures catalogs?

Caught me, says Cory, and he grins that big dimple grin, and there’s a tingle in my chest. This boy who I’ve only known for a month—who sometimes feels like a brother and sometimes … not. We’re connected through the diary. His ability to translate Sisi’s language and all that we uncovered together.

But here, at the farm, the thing about Cory being my father’s girlfriend’s brother—it’s too weird. I can’t crush on him. Or, I won’t.

The fighting sounds of Dad and Willow, briefly calmed, now seem to be back in escalation mode. One of Willow’s mangy cats creeps from oak trunk to oak trunk after a robin and I jump.

All my senses are in overdrive. I need to take my meds. The smell of manure and spray from the leased clover fields hits me hard. All these things—tension, the cat pouncing, the insane heat, my weird feelings about the locket and diary and Cory—they all combine into a big knot of anxiety. My lungs feel heavy, and won’t fill with air. I feel like I’m disappearing.

Liz?

I wave Cory away with the back of my hand.

You’re going all pale. What’s up?

Before I can think of anything to say to explain my sudden attack, I grab the locket back from his hand. Like when I used to keep my hands under hot water, I want to feel pain. Something that breaks the spell and proves I’m real. I push the tip of the metal